


(I Don't Know Where It Starts) But It Ends With You and Me

by TheMipstaz



Series: There's a Light in the Dark [6]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Art Student Louis, Asexual Louis, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Washington D.C., national gallery of art, pre-law Harry, you and me AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 05:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14465559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: Prompt: For a summer job, Harry becomes a docent at an art gallery (I have the National Gallery of Art in DC in my head bc it's my favorite, but it can be wherever). He doesn't know anything about art (he's studying finance or something, it doesn't matter). A beautiful boy (Louis) comes in to study a different painting every day of the summer and Harry wants to impress him. Louis is all about his art and doesn't want to be/doesn't have time to be bothered with Harry, he just wants to study his paintings (or sculptures). Louis is also asexual so he's wary about getting into any kind of relationship, but that can kind of take a back seat as to why he doesn't 'encourage' Harry.I'll leave the rest up to you. Whether or not Harry decides the best way to impress is to learn a lot about art, or take up painting himself, or whatever. Whether or not Louis sees right through him or if he actually believes Harry is a legitimate art enthusiast. Just have fun with it!





	(I Don't Know Where It Starts) But It Ends With You and Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radiantbeams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiantbeams/gifts).



> Title from [You and Me.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0QiRs4cqzCM) Shoutout to [Skye](http://twistofpayne.tumblr.com/) for looking over this and giving great feedback! And of course a great big thanks to the mods for putting together this exchange. I loved being pushed to write something I normally wouldn't and proving that I could still write even though uni has got me busy as hell.

Harry Styles has done a lot of strange things in his life. He let Zayn tattoo  _ big toe  _ on his big toe. He once streaked across campus with nothing but a rainbow flag to protect his bum from the frigid January air. And on one memorable occasion, he and Nick went to a drag show and somehow wound up strutting the catwalk in just their pants and feather boas. The universe really seems to enjoy getting Harry as close to starkers as possible, and he can’t say he’s too upset about it. 

So, really, Harry’s summer volunteer gig as a docent at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, DC isn’t such a weird thing in the grand scheme of things. As long as you ignore the fact that Harry started the training program two years ago when he still thought he was going to get an art history degree with Zayn. And if you disregard the fact that Harry didn’t bow out of the docent program two months later when he switched over to the pre-law track. It’s just, he had already started the online modules and signed up for a Skype info session. He had committed; there was no going back.

So, in his humble opinion, Harry doesn’t think he deserves the taken-aback look Zayn gives him when Harry informs him of their summer plans: flying 8 hours across the Atlantic to volunteer at an American art museum. Well, Harry was going to volunteer; Zayn would probably visit every exhibit twice like the giant art nerd he is. 

“Because,” Zayn draws out the word, searching for any reasonable way to end the sentence, “there’s an exhibit on American law?” He nods to himself at that logical conclusion. “On their constitution?” 

Harry shrugs. “Maybe. I think they’ve got a Pollock showing right now.” 

Zayn frowns harder than ever, but Harry brings out the dimples and eventually Zayn gives up trying to make sense of Harry’s antics. Took him long enough. 

“You’re absolutely mad,” Zayn tells him solemnly while Harry shoves his favorite pink polka dot shirt into his duffel. “But this is kinda sick, bro.” He scrolls through his phone and flicks through the museum’s website. “I mean, they’ve got the Pollock, but also, like, Raphael and da Vinci, the classics, you know.” Zayn rattles off a few more increasingly complicated names that might have made sense to Harry during his first term. But he’s a year and a half out of touch with his art history roots, so he just hums and nods while Zayn goes on about 16th century Renaissance pigments. 

* * *

Louis Tomlinson does not fuck with modern art. He wants to specialize in 16th and 17th century pieces, not become the next Picasso. He’ll leave that up to the twins and their finger paints. But his academic advisor mentions broadening his horizons before he graduates, and experiences abroad look good on resumes, right? So Louis somehow ends up on a trans-Atlantic flight to Washington fucking D.C. to visit a massive American art museum he couldn’t give two fucks about even if they do have an El Greco that caught his eye on the website. He’s not even sure what the bloody place is called, if he’s honest. The name’s somewhere in his Whatsapp chat with Liam and Niall, tucked between Louis complaining about airplane food and Liam telling Niall not to let Louis fling himself out the emergency exit like he has threatened to.

Niall slings an arm around Louis’ shoulders to pull him close and smack an obnoxiously wet kiss to the side of Louis’ head while the phone camera shutter clicks. He sends the selfie off to Liam. 

Louis shoves him off on principle, scowling. “Kisses won’t stop me. The emergency latch’s right there, Horan. Don’t test me.” 

Niall just laughs and lets Louis pillow his head on Niall’s shoulder anyway. “Reckon your big arse’d cushion your landing anyway. You’ll be fine.” 

Louis wants to complain on principle, but he does have a nice bum. 

* * *

“And here, ladies and gentlemen,” Harry pauses and quickly tacks on, “and gender-nonconforming individuals,” just to be safe, “is where our tour ends. Thank you so much for spending this afternoon with me. If you had a good time, my name is Harry, and it’s been my pleasure. If you didn’t, you can call me Zayn and take it up with my supervisor.” That gets one last round of obligatory chuckles from his antsy group of tourists. “Have a wonderful day, and enjoy the rest of the museum. I will stick around for any last minute questions.”

After assisting the stragglers—“Nearest bathrooms can be found down that hall on your right.” “No, I don’t know why the tour doesn’t end in the same place we started. Maybe the museum just wants to make sure no one misses this great exhibit.”—Harry finds his attention caught by his youngest tour group member of the day. 

“I could make this,” the little girl says matter-of-factly, staring intently at the Pollock mural. She brushes wild brown ringlets away from her face and huffs when they fall back into her eyes. 

“I believe you,” the man next to her replies just as seriously. “Bet my baby sisters back and home could make this exact thing.” 

Harry doesn’t particularly care about Pollock, but he also doesn’t believe Pollock deserves to get destroyed by an 8 year-old when he’s not even present to defend himself. “If you could make it,” Harry sidles up to the two, “then how come your art isn’t hanging in this museum?” 

“I’m working on it,” the girl responds, primly smoothing down her paisley dress. 

“Oh yeah? So in a year or two I’ll see some of your stuff in an exhibit here?”

She nods confidently.

Harry grins, crouching down to offer his pinky. “Pinky promise?” 

She hooks their fingers together. “Pinky promise.” 

“Good.” Harry straightens up, joints crackling, and tips his head at the man holding the girl’s other hand. “And you? Any masterpieces on the horizon I should alert the museum about?” 

A brow arches delicately above a pair of strikingly blue eyes. “Mate, do I look like the next Pollock?” 

Harry takes in the man’s frumpy jumper thrown over a pair of trackies and Adidas trainers. “More of a Rembrandt man?” Harry hazards a guess, wincing a little and hoping his mystery art man doesn’t realize that’s the first name Harry could remember from his docent spiel. Harry makes a mental note to pay more attention when Zayn waxes poetic about Paik this or Grazda that. 

“Not quite,” comes the dry reply. Not-A-Rembrandt-Man turns away, little paisley girl in tow, to meander towards the next canvas hung on the wall. 

Harry wonders if he imagines the way his chest deflates a little. 

* * *

The next time Louis visits the museum—“The National Gallery of Art,” a voice that sounds suspiciously like Liam dutifully reels off—he’s not somehow found himself in a modern art exhibit being mistaken for some hipster knob by an unfairly cute volunteer—“ _ Harry _ ,” reminds a voice that sounds suspiciously like his own. Instead of forlornly ruminating on how he had probably looked homeless, Louis shakes his head and refocuses on the brilliant Raphael in front of him. But the Virgin’s eyes just look judgemental, so Louis scowls back at her. How was he supposed to know American museums apparently hired bloody models? Louis obviously wouldn’t have worn his rattiest Rovers pullover if he had known he was going to come face to face with Harry’s big green eyes and ridiculous giraffe-patterned shirt that couldn’t possibly follow museum dress code. How people could pay attention to Harry butchering every other artist’s name was beyond Louis, who couldn’t think much of anything when the light hit Harry just right and limned his curls in gold.

Niall squints at the plaque and reads, “ _ The Alba Madonna _ . 1510. Oil on panel transferred to canvas.” He nods to himself pensively, like he gives a fuck about any of that and isn’t just here because Louis bribed him with pints afterwards. 

Louis rolls his eyes and returns to his notes, jotting down the details he’ll need for the paper he’s supposedly here to write in order to justify his visit abroad. The sooner he gets what he needs, the sooner they can leg it the fuck out of here and go check out the DC club scene. 

Buoyed by that thought, Louis stares harder at the painting, cataloguing the soft features and circular shapes that speak of divine perfection and salvation. He can feel himself sinking into the details of it all until a familiar voice cuts through his musings about Raphael’s adoption of Roman influences. 

“And here is Leondardo da Vinci’s  _ Ginevra de’ Benci _ ,” Louis blinks at the sound of Harry’s voice, looking up and around despite himself, “a 16 year-old girl from a wealthy family. Why was she painted? Some say her betrothed, Luigi Niccolini, commissioned it in 1474. Others say this painting was from one of Ginevra’s many admirers, among them names like Lorenzo de’Menci and Bernardo Bembo.” 

Niall notices Louis’ stilled hand and looks up from his phone. “Louis?” Louis quickly snaps his gaze away from Harry’s sweeping gestures and the way his warm smile captivates his audience, but not before Niall follows his eyeline. “Who’s that?” 

“No one,” Louis says shortly, grabbing Niall’s hand to drag him out of the room. “Let’s go get lunch.” 

“Lunch?” Niall stops craning his neck to peer at Harry. 

Louis thinks about his half finished notes and sighs. At this rate, he’s going to have to spend every day of the the trip at this damn museum. Then he thinks about Harry’s molasses-slow words curling off his tongue and the pink of his bottom lip when he tugs at it with ring-studded fingers, and Louis doesn’t feel so irritated. 

* * *

Harry has just finished his shift when he sees Not-A-Rembrandt-Man again. Or rather, NARM sees him, widens his eyes, and ducks behind a blonde lad, who grins jovially. Harry can never resist a shiny smile, so he saunters over.

When he gets closer, he can see the blonde fade to a darker brown upon closer inspection, like a trick of the light. Harry peers at the picture beside them. “More of a Bellini man, then? Good choice.” He nods sagely, like he knows a single thing about Giovanni Bellini. 

Possibly-A-Bellini-Man opens his mouth, but his friend cuts him off, “Yeah, Louis loves this shit.” Then he shoots Harry an apologetic look while Definitely-A-Bellini-Man— _ Louis _ , Harry’s brain supplies—glowers. “Sorry, mate, not that your art stuff is shit or anything. But I’m studying golf management, so.” 

Harry grins in relief at finding someone else who doesn’t know the difference between chiaroscuro and sfumato. “It’s alright. I’m pre-law myself.” 

Louis throws up his hands and bursts from his hiding place behind his friend. “Am I the only one who actually cares about art in this whole fucking place?” he demands, crossing his arms and huffing. 

“Hey,” Harry protests, biting back a grin at how close Louis looks to actually stomping his foot in frustration, “I like art. I used to be an art history major, you know. And a baker, if that helps any.” 

Louis’ friend shrugs unapologetically. “I’m here for the chips you promised me, Tommo.” 

Harry perks up. “Chips? Best chips around here are only 10 minutes away, I swear. Well, best as Americans can get them, you know. It’s not a proper chippy, but it’s decent.” 

The grin Louis’ friend’s breaks out could light up the city. He claps Harry on the shoulder. “My kind of man. You sure know how to pick ‘em, Louis.” 

Louis turns faintly pink while Harry preens. “Calm down, Niall.” To Harry, he says, “I’m sure you’re very busy and—” 

“Actually,” Harry interrupts, “just got off my shift.”

Niall throws a pleading look towards Louis. He looks ten seconds away from begging on his knees. 

The only reason Louis scowls and snaps, “Fine,” is because he’s looking out for Niall’s bum knee, which Niall would absolutely fuck up if he actually groveled for lunch. So, really, Louis is just doing what any good friend would do. It has nothing to do with Harry’s winning smile or the softness of his palm when Harry grasps his hand. 

“Harry.” 

“Louis.”

“He already knew that, mate,” Louis’ friend stage whispers.

Louis grows pinker and jabs a sharp elbow, which his companion dodges in a practiced move.

“I’m Niall, by the way,” he offers as he leads Harry towards the exit, arm slung around Harry’s shoulder like they’ve known each other years. “So these chips, tell me what we’re working with. Soft? Crisp? Seasoned?”

Harry reaches out to snag Louis’ wrist before Niall can whisk him away. Louis stumbles into Harry’s free side before he rights himself and falls into step with them. He doesn’t pull away from Harry’s grip until they leave the museum. 

* * *

Somehow Harry’s invitation to go out for chips and pints turns into dinner a couple days later, and that turns into a weekend pub crawl, which somehow leads to Harry dutifully waiting for Louis after he’s finished taking his notes for the day. Some days Niall is there to pretentiously stroke his chin and nod thoughtfully until Harry laughs and Louis shoves him. But more often than not, it’s just Louis and Harry ambling down the stone steps at the entrance to whatever sushi joint or Mediterranean fusion spot Harry has Googled on a whim.

No matter how much Louis sternly berates himself that he’s only here in America for the summer, that all of this will end—Harry’s guffawing laugh, the bounce of his hair when he runs his fingers through it, the click of his ridiculous chelsea boots on the pavement—Louis can’t help but allow it to subsume him. It becomes routine to seek out Harry’s bright green eyes at the end of his shift, to lean into his broad frame as they exit the building, to scoff at whatever absurd pun he’s waited hours to tell Louis. Louis firmly tells himself he won’t miss it, that this is just something to enjoy for now. But every time he thinks it, it feels more and more hollow. 

* * *

“Zayn!”

“Hazza, how’s it stateside?” 

“Could be better.”

Zayn’s grainy Skype picture immediately frowns and leans forward. “What’s happened?” 

Harry sighs morosely. “So there’s this boy.” 

Zayn sits back with a groan and rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Harry, you scared me.” 

“Hey,” whines Harry, pouting and hoping the shitty camera quality will do it justice, “this is serious. He’s an art boy, Zayn, getting his degree and everything. I thought you of all people would approve.” 

“I do, but I’d also like my best friend to call me from another country because he misses me, not to ask for help courting an art babe,” Zayn replies in a dry voice. 

Harry makes a hurt noise. “I miss you!”

Zayn squints with an _ I know your bullshit, Styles _ hum. 

“I sent you a postcard! It had a dog that looked just like Hatchi on it. What more do you want from me?” 

Zayn crosses his arms. “A print. And a picture of this art boy.”

“Done and done. So does that mean you’re going to help me?” Harry beams. 

Zayn sighs longsufferingly, speaker crackling. “Fine.” Harry cheers. “What kind of art does this boy like?” 

* * *

“I’m no expert,” Louis blinks and straightens up at the sound of Harry’s amused voice, “but I think when you come in to take notes for a class, you’re supposed to actually, like, write stuff down.” Harry gestures at the paper on Louis’ lap, blank save for a couple doodles of what Harry thinks might be football players fighting an enormous, fire-breathing Great Dane. 

Louis makes a face. “Ha, ha, the Cheshire lad’s got jokes.” 

Harry grins and sits next to Louis on the bench, close enough that their knees knock. “Just one of my many talents.” 

“I’ll say,” Louis grumps. “Your others include distracting hard working uni students from getting shit done. Now shove off.” He halfheartedly nudges Harry with his shoulder. 

“Hard working uni students who’ve finished their research for their Sixteenth Century Italian Art class ages ago?” Harry asks innocently. 

Louis freezes, pen stuck in his mouth where he had been chewing it. “Er…”

“Niall told me,” Harry explains. “Turns out if you buy him enough Guinness, he’ll tell you anything.” 

“Bloody Irish traitor,” Louis huffs without heat, fondness smoothing any sharpness his words might have held. 

Harry notices how Louis’ fingers fidget with the corner of his notebook, and he covers Louis’ hand with his own. Louis stills, keen blue eyes roving over Harry’s face—searching. Harry doesn’t know for what, but he hopes Louis finds it. “So what’s got you coming back here every day, if not the class?” It feels like a loaded question, rolling heavy off his tongue. 

“Definitely not the help,” Louis teases, instinctively retreating behind a lighthearted tone. “The volunteers here, absolutely dreadful, haven’t you heard? Some of them study the most boring things.” 

“Like pre-law?” Harry guesses, biting back a smile. 

Louis nods emphatically, relieved that Harry is going along with his joke. If Louis keeps Harry smiling, maybe they can ignore the way Louis’ skin tingles where Harry’s fingers rest against his own. Maybe they can ignore the way his heart beats too quickly when he meets Harry’s green eyes. “Exactly. And they don’t know a thing about the art.” 

Harry leans closer. “Try me.” 

Never one to back down from a challenge, Louis peers around the room. “There, that one.” He points at a grisly painting, dark colors and poisonous serpents casting a dark pall within the frame. 

“ _ Laocoön _ by El Greco,” Harry reels off triumphantly. “It tells the story of Laocoön, a priest of Troy who warned the Trojans not to accept the wooden horse the Greeks sent. He threw a spear at the horse, so Minerva sent two serpents to kill him in revenge.” When Louis doesn’t say anything, Harry sheepishly admits, “Niall may have mentioned you liked El Greco.” 

Louis blinks. “You,” he licks his lips, “you learned about El Greco for me?” 

Harry shrugs, a bashful flush warming his cheeks. He makes to lean back, but Louis doesn’t let him get far. A quick hand cups the back of Harry’s neck to yank him in close enough for Louis to swallow down any stuttering explanation Harry could conjure up. 

Harry hums in surprise, but lets his eyes flutter shut and sinks into the kiss. His hand comes up to first circle Louis’ wrist, then cup his jaw. His fingers smooth over rough stubble of Louis’ jaw. 

They part slowly, Harry’s gaze darting to Louis’ mouth and Louis trying to control his shaky exhale. 

“You looked up El Greco for me,” Louis repeats dumbly, like that can somehow encapsulate the magnificent ballooning feeling in his chest or the dazed disbelief clogging his throat. 

Harry chuckles, low and warm, and darts in to peck Louis’ cheek. “Would’ve done it a lot sooner if I knew this would happen.” 

“No one’s ever done that for me before,” Louis admits wonderingly. “Niall only knows El Greco’s full name because we revise together at the end of the year.” 

“Doménikos Theotokópoulos,” Harry recites triumphantly. 

Louis does his best not to swoon right then and there. It would be unbecoming. 

“Guess no one’s liked you as much as I like you,” Harry says easily, like those words don’t make Louis’ lungs constrict. 

“Like me enough to do a bit more research?” Louis feels almost lightheaded when the words leave his mouth.

“Try me.” The corner of Harry’s mouth curves up playfully, but his eyes look intense, like he knows Louis’ words hold more weight than he’s letting on. 

Louis’s hands tremble when the reach for Harry’s phone. It’s a miracle it can even read his thumbprint, nevermind autocorrect his shaky typing. Louis wordlessly shows Harry his Google search. The dull roar in his ears nearly drowns out Harry’s bemused, “Asexuality?” Harry tips his head. 

“It means,” Louis swallows down the fear clamming up his hands and balls his hands into fists. “It means I don’t want to fuck you. Or anyone. Ever. And if you can’t deal with that, you can get the hell out right now.” It feels good, the anger coloring his wan complexion. It feels familiar, the unwavering grasp he has on who he is that he won’t give up for anyone, not even a cute set of dimples and miles-long legs. 

Harry doesn’t flinch at Louis’ sharp words, but reaches past the razor edges to hold Louis’ hand. And Louis softens like he always does around Harry, hackles flattening and underbelly exposed, waiting for a blow that won’t ever come. “Okay.” Harry presses a smile into Louis’ palm. His lips whisper sweet promises into Louis’ skin that Louis can’t help but believe. 

Later, Niall will crow that he is the world’s best matchmaker and everyone can now call him the Irish cupid. Later, Liam’s eyes will bug out of his head when Louis FaceTimes him and smugly introduces his new American-but-not-really boyfriend. And later, Zayn will gripe to Louis and share commiserating looks about how long it took to get Harry to pronounce Doménikos Theotokópoulos properly. 

But for now, Harry nudges Louis’ nose with his own and whispers, “Can I kiss you again?” 

And for now, Louis says, “Yes.” 


End file.
